Sunday was a man of pristine cleanliness. The tie should be on the centerline, the shirt should not protrude from the vest, and the trouser creases must be perfectly straight. Those were the shackles he willingly stepped into, the gilded bars that The Order wrought around him. He must always be put together, and must not show any signs of filth. His wings were always groomed, his halo always shined. It has never been any other way; until you.

You, the Nameless that had fought him so valiantly when he was still misconstrued and drowning in sin for the betterment of humanity. You had lowered his barriers one by one as he grew accustomed to the traditions of Trailblaze; cupped whatever remains of light left in his soul, then offered up your heart in return.

He had sought redemption, cast his gaze to the heavens even as he fell from the sky– He was your Icarus. You were the sun, and he would burn his wings away every time to see you smile, to hold the hands that had caressed the sweat from his brows during his frequent night terrors.

He feared every day that he might lose you, just as he had ‘lost’ his sister when she made the fateful deal that set him free from Penacony’s prison.

There were no other words to describe you– the tongue of humans was nought but an obstruction to the love he felt when he gazed upon your face. You handed him the key to his cage, guided his hand to the lock.

Sunday let out a sigh as he reclined, your fingers finding the little gold spikes he had driven through his left wing. His meticulously groomed plumes were now in disarray from your warm fingers, his feathers twitching despite himself when the back of your knuckle slipped across the down. It wasn’t long before his wings flapped once, then twice– he would never have let this happen if he was still the head of the Oak Family.

Soon his gray-blue feathers were fluttering against your careful hands, bending forward to hide his reddened cheeks when you tickled his wings.

“Dearest,” he warned, though his voice held no malice.